


Knight of the Night

by calrissian18



Series: Mating Games: Round 2 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Long Distance Snarkery, M/M, Post Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson grins, chest still heaving. He points at Stiles. “Princess.” Then to himself. “Knight.”</p><p>Written for mating_games Challenge 1: Happily Ever After.  AND WON FIRST PLACE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Nope, that title totally isn't from _The Office_. Nuh uh, nope. Oh, fine, all right, shut up. So, first pass at this came in at 545. I got to _add_ words.  ADD THEM. Glory, Hallelujah, praise Kabblah monster.
> 
> I am STUNNED that this won. Blushingly, amazingly, fantastically stunned. Thank you so much to everyone who voted for this!

Stilinski’s pale, skeletal, half-dead and looking to slide into full when Jackson sees him for the first time in well over a year. He bares his teeth, mean without provocation. “Lydia isn’t here,” he spits.

Even over the crap Skype connection, Jackson can hear the drag of his heartbeat—too slow. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, against his better judgment, expression twisted like he might catch whatever plague Stilinski’s clearly contracted.

Stilinski blanches, snaps, “Your face,” and closes Lydia’s laptop on him.

Which is fine with Jackson, looking at that much unattractiveness had been more than worthy of a  _Fear Factor_ -esque challenge.

* * *

He doesn’t know why he keeps staring at it— _youvebeensolo’d_. He never should have saved the damn thing, but Lydia wouldn’t let it go. ‘You were both the things that went bump in the night; discuss.’

Honestly, he’s more surprised that Stilinski answers than that he’s called. “Lydia told me,” he says bluntly.

Stilinski still looks like shit, coming into focus slowly. The skin under his eyes is smudged dark and his sockets are sunken. “And you’ve retained it this long? Kudos, Scaly.”

Jackson tilts his head to the side, decides, “You look like death.”

“You look like a douche.” Stilinski jerks back and Jackson focuses until he can hear the Sheriff calling up to him. He leaves without so much as a ‘peace, dickwipe,’ comes back a half hour later and collapses face first into his bed.

Jackson doesn’t end the session. Instead, he lets Stilinski’s breathing slip between the notes of  _Street Lights_  while he finishes his Romanticism essay. He’s been lulled into a light doze himself by the time he hears the spike in the heartbeat, the thrashing. Stilinski’s wrapped up in his sheets, holding a pencil in his fist above his abdomen.

“Stilinski!   _Stiles_.” Dark eyes shoot open, fingers tighten and release, and Stilinski drops the makeshift katana. Lydia’d told Jackson about that too. “You were dreaming.”

Stilinski pants, looks over at him like he has no idea how he got there. He swallows and drags in air like it’s in limited supply. When he’s not so desperate for it, he hefts himself up and over, his collar drenched with sweat. He sits down heavily, doesn’t meet Jackson’s eyes. “I killed a lot of people.”

It sounds like the start to a 12-step meeting. ‘Hello, I’m Stiles and I killed a lot of people.’

The first step is admitting it.

Jackson smirks and arches both eyebrows. It’s a weak shield. “The police department doesn’t fare well around there, does it?”

Stilinski’s staring down at his hands. “How do you sleep?”

Jackson lets the words twist out of his mouth. “I don’t.” Stilinski nods, starts to stand. “Stiles.” He freezes, tensing up, and Jackson sighs. “You slayed the dragon, you know—freed the princess from the tower or whatever and now you’re moving on to—to the happily ever after.” He shrugs, says somewhat wryly, “It’s not as easy as the fairy tales make it out to be.”

Stilinski actually manages to crack a smile. Jackson gets the feeling it’s been a while since the last one and  _he’s_  the one who got it out of him. “I’m the princess, am I?” Stilinski asks sardonically.

Jackson means to give him a superior sneer. He’s pretty sure his eyes linger too long on Stilinski’s mouth to pull it off.

* * *

Jackson wakes him from the nightmares. Night after night. Stilinski never thanks him for it. Which is fine. Jackson never wants him to.

He jokingly tells Stilinski that jerking off tends to ensure a dreamless sleep. He’d only been half-hoping it would lead to him getting his dick out.

It does.

* * *

Stiles wipes his come-covered hand off on his sheets, because he’s disgusting, and blinks wide eyes at him. Jackson’s no better, t-shirt soaked through and thighs still spread obscenely. “You watch me sleep,” Stiles says somewhat snidely, because Jackson’s the only person he can still be cruel to without having to watch him then search for some hint of  _void_  behind it. “Is being creepy as shit a werewolf trait?”

Jackson grins, chest still heaving. He points at Stiles. “Princess.” Then to himself. “Knight.”

Stiles looks up at him, eyes searching, and says slowly, “They tend to end up together, you know?”

Jackson shrugs, feigning nonchalance while his heart pounds painfully in his chest. “At least I know you don’t snore.”

**Author's Note:**

> Everything good in the world has come together in this [one](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/) place. Because I'm basically the Mother Teresa of werewolves with t-shirt allergies.


End file.
